Zane Grey & Chesterfields

WRITING PROMPT #353

Wild, Wild West

“Zane Grey & Chesterfields”

Growing up in Boston everyone played cowboys and Indians. We all had a cowboy or Indian costume: hat/headdress, gun/tomahawk, cowboy boots/moccasins and more. We played for hours around the neighborhood, onto the playground or school yard. Everywhere! Our parents kept an eye on us. They wouldn’t give us a B-B gun despite pestering. When we were good we got a movie allowance down the Village that featured monsters or westerns. It was before the era of “spaghetti westerns” starring Clint Eastwood and Lee Van Cleef. Nor, Blazing Saddles, a latter-day cult western. We saw happy westerns with Gene Autry, the singing cowboy, Tom Mix, Roy Rogers and Trigger, the Lone Ranger and his sidekick the demeaning Tonto. There were happy cowboys singing around the campfire. The Indians were the enemy, always hunting white men and women. We didn’t know why. They painted their faces, didn’t wear shirts or use saddles and looked mean.

We had not been introduced to Indian cultures, history, government and heroes till we were teens and read James Fenimore Coopers’ Last of the Mohicans and the Leatherstocking Tales. But his stories were of an earlier era and did not include cowboys, but featured soldiers, trappers, traders and different Indian tribes. We were indoctrinated about the drunk, no-good savages who attacked stagecoaches and settler farms stretching westward. Pioneers were attacked and tortured until the cavalry came to the rescue. White women were captured and forced to live like savages. Sometimes, one would be rescued or escape but scarred and brainwashed. So, we were taught! The legends and lore were shared among the ignorant and naïve. Like many facets of American history, we were innocent and didn’t question.

I remember the kids who played: Buddy, Stevie, Frankie, Peter, my little brother Donnie, Bruce and some who drifted in from other neighborhoods. We switched sides in cowboys versus Indians, drew up complicated plans, ambushes, camouflage and made better bows and arrows. We imagined robbing a stagecoach or a bank; then filled paper bags with fake coins and loot in trade for prisoners. Acting like cowboys we tried smoking a Chesterfield or Camel and got deathly sick. We never rode horses but stood patiently in line for pony rides when the carnival visited, or some rich kid had a grand birthday party.

I remember when my kindergarten class at Lawrence School performed a cowboy chorus on Boston’s WGBH Channel 4. The whole town noticed, and we were little stars for a week. Our parents didn’t discourage our role-playing. I guess they thought we’d discern the truth someday. What harm does it do? We knew teepees but nothing about Indian reservations, the trail of tears or other tragedies. Our dad would later reveal the truth behind the legends. Peel away the curtain from mythology. His teaching came from Christian common sense plus reading and smoking, two intertwined habits. His favorite genre was “westerns”, especially Zane Grey novels. His preferred smoke brand was Chesterfield.

Dad was a hardworking, unassuming family man. His passions were hockey, baseball and reading. He could fix anything around the house. He was a Chesterfield addict! After dinner he would relax on the sofa with a dog-eared Zane Grey novel and light a cigarette. Absorbed in the Riders of the Purple Sky, or other Zane Grey yarn, he would drift away in fantasy. Born in Boston, he held a commission in the cavalry reserves but spent World War II in the Bethlehem shipyard. In the 1950s and 60’s he worked hard as a union member, often travelling out of town. A Zane Grey paperback would be in his suitcase.

Back home, he’d take his favorite after dinner spot, light a Chesterfield and start a Zane Grey tale. He never tired of the cowboy and Indian skirmishes, the stagecoach and bank robberies, gun fights, barroom poker games and brawls. The baseball game would flicker in its 12-inch screen. Barely noticed.

He asked what we were reading in school. “Time for a western adventure with Hopalong Cassidy or Tom Mix? Take this Zane Grey book but don’t lose it.” He handed one from under the sofa. “Read it with your brother. More fun that way. Better than the Hardy Boys.”

Sometimes we had to wake him with a cigarette dangling in his fingers. “Wake up dad. Careful with the butt.”

“Oh, yah. Thanks” in his Boston accent.

“Who’s winning, dad? The cowboys?”

“Yah, as usual. But doesn’t mean they should.”

“What do you mean?”

” The Indians were here, first – not the cowboys or settlers. It was their land. They took it. The soldiers killed them when they resisted.”

“But that was a long time ago and faraway.” 

“Don’t you know the story of the Wampanoag Indians here in Massachusetts?”

“Sure. They helped the pilgrims celebrate their first Thanksgiving.”

“Only a small part of what they did. The Pilgrims were totally not prepared when they arrived. They were ordinary people escaping religious persecution in England. They didn’t know the wilderness.”

“What did they do, dad?”

“Many died. The Wampanoag pitied them, brought food and used Indian medicine. Some survived. That’s the reason for the first Thanksgiving. The Indians brought wild turkey, fish, lobsters and corn. Later, they taught the pilgrims how to hunt, fish and farm. They shared their ancestral knowledge and bounty. Later, the white men of Massachusetts turned on the Wampanoag, taking their land. We didn’t have cowboys in Massachusetts but had the Pilgrims. Their grandchildren and others acted selfishly just like we read in these novels.”

“Gee, they don’t teach us this in school.”

“Too bad! Can you empty the ashtray? Almost time for the Braves game. And don’t forget the book.”

I don’t have grandkids but someday when they arrive, I’ll make sure they move quickly from Goodnight Moon to simple cowboy yarns and then Zane Grey. I’ll tell them about their great-grampa, a kind, wise gentlemen and teacher of right and wrong.

Richard Nelson

Lakewood Ranch, Florida